The Well (28 page)

He tugged and pulled against the tape, trying to wriggle himself free – but nothing he did seemed to loosen his bonds.

He realised that what Randle had said was true: he could be here for some time.

4

Around the breakfast table in Abby’s flat the mood was sombre.

Helen was nursing her arm, sipping coffee. Abby found it shocking to see Helen, normally the most upbeat of people, so quiet and withdrawn.

Abby was fretting, reflecting on her phone call to the police. Rather than dispose of her clothes last night, which she’d decided would be far too risky, she’d brought them home and packed them into a thick plastic rubbish bag, which she’d stashed into one of the cupboards at the back of the shop. The fear of discovery loomed over her. What had seemed like an acceptable risk – to perhaps add a day or two’s delay to the search, by sending the police in the wrong direction – now seemed, in the daylight, to have been nothing short of reckless.

Sammy slowly ate her cereal, occasionally looking at either her mother or Helen. Eventually, she said tentatively, “Mummy, can I go to school today?”

Abby shook her head. “No Sams, not today. Maybe tomorrow.”

“You don’t mean that,” said Sammy, knowing it to be the truth.

Silence descended again. Normally, Abby would have comforted Helen, or Helen her, but both were lost in their own despair.

After a few minutes, Abby noticed that Sammy was crying, tears falling into the bowl in front of her. Feeling guilty, she moved and sat next to her daughter, brushing the tears away and kissing her forehead.

“Oh, Sammy,” she said. “Is it the girl?”

Sammy shook her head. “No, she’s asleep. It’s you and Helen.”

Helen looked over. “How, baby? Because we’re upset?”

Sammy nodded and sniffled. “You’re both saying nothing, but it’s like you’re shouting inside – and I can’t get away from it. In my head.”

Abby pulled Sammy close and kissed her. “I’m sorry, Sammy,” she said. “You know we love you. It’s just that things are – well, bad right now.”

“I know,” said Sammy. “But why aren’t we helping the girl? That’s bad of us.”

“It’s not that simple,” said Abby.

“That’s just a grown-up’s way of getting me to shut up,” said Sammy. “It’s not a proper answer.”

Abby and Helen exchanged looks.

“Mummy,” said Sammy. “You know that I
just know
some of it. But it doesn’t make sense. I don’t understand it all. It frightens me. And I know you want to tell me, but you don’t want to tell me
now
. You want to wait. But it’s
happening now
– when you think I’m old enough to be told will be too late.”

Too late for what?
Abby wondered.

Abby looked at Helen for support, but she was silent.

“Helen thinks you should tell me,” said Sammy. “Isn’t that right?”

Helen nodded. “Yes, Sam, it is.”

Abby inhaled deeply.
God help me,
she thought,
here goes.

As she started to speak, Sammy interrupted her. “It’s OK, Mummy. Telling me is OK. I already know bits. It’s like a painting-by-numbers picture, where you add the colours, or –” Sammy thought for a moment, “– or a join-the-dots.”

Not for the first time, Abby was humbled by her daughter’s honesty and wisdom. Helen smiled for the first time that morning.

And so, using language that Sammy would understand, but never being condescending, Abby retold the story she had only previously shared with Helen. Sammy listened, taking it all in – and never once did she seem surprised.

5

For the third time, Stephen Carter banged on the door to Randle’s flat. There was no response. He looked at his watch.
I could have missed him
, he thought. He pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket and called John. “Any news?” he asked. “Nothing,” said John. “The kids are all going in now, and there’s no sign of him.”

Shit
, thought Carter.
This doesn’t feel right.

“Give me ten minutes,” he said to John. “I’ll call you back.”

He banged on the door again, harder.

One of the neighbours opened her door and peered outside. “He’ll be at work, now,” she said. Stephen nodded.

“Mind you,” she said, “there was a right row last night. He’s normally very quiet.”

Stephen tried to look in through the window, but it was the bathroom – with frosted glass with net curtains behind.

He banged again and opened the letterbox, and shouted into it, “Mr Randle?”

Ed’s probably half-killed him
, he thought. He looked through the letterbox. At the other end of the hall, lying in the entrance to the living room, was Ed – gagged and bound to a chair.

Oh fuck
.

Without hesitation, Stephen called into the police station on his radio, giving Randle’s address. “I repeat,” he said, “we have an injured officer. I need backup and an ambulance now.”

He didn’t wait for confirmation. Standing back, he kicked the door in. It took four attempts, but once it yielded, it flew open, crashing against the wall behind.

He ran to Ed, resisting the temptation to bring his chair upright, not knowing how badly he’d been hurt. As he moved forwards, he quickly took in the view in front of him. The flat was a mess, blood, papers and photographs everywhere. The photographs –

He paused and looked more closely. Picture after picture of young girls. Smiling portraits, girls with awards, girls running races, girls playing netball.
Holy fucking shit,
he thought,
Ed was right.

He carefully pulled the tape from Ed’s mouth and started to ask, “Randle?” Before the word had left his mouth, Ed gasped, “Hannah. He’s after Hannah. Call into the school. Call home.”

Stephen felt his blood chill. He’d never, ever, seen Ed Davis weep, but now he was begging like a child.

“Find him,” he sobbed. “Get the bastard.”

6

All things considered, Randle hadn’t had a bad night. Once he’d got himself settled, calmed down and cleaned up in Arthur’s flat he’d been able to sleep pretty soundly.

He’d not hung around at home other than to quickly wash the blood from his face, pick up the keys to Arthur’s flat, his seldom-used contact lenses and the knife with which he’d threatened Ed. He’d also taken a moment to fish Ed’s wallet out from his trouser pocket – which gave him exactly what he needed to know the most: Ed’s (and more importantly Hannah’s) home address, neatly printed on his driver’s licence. Randle knew that being found anywhere near Ed’s home would be a risk.
So what?
Everything is a risk now
, he thought.

Arthur’s flat wasn’t too far from his own, just at the other end of the estate. In one respect it was dangerously close to his home – if the police made door-to-door enquiries, they would come here. Yet, it would be unlikely that they’d search for him here – they’d look further afield. He could wait here all day, as quietly as he could and then leave at night. If the police came knocking, he’d just not answer – and if they asked the neighbours, they’d confirm that Arthur was away.

Although his threat had been in haste, he knew now that it was what he was going to do. Ultimately, his chances of escape were nil. Once the police went through his flat (and if they weren’t found first) he’d take the blame for those missing kids. Even if he didn’t, the police wouldn’t take lightly the beating of one of their own, even if he had arrived drunk and spoiling for a fight.

Then there were all of his pictures. Individually, none were actually pornographic – they weren’t even erotic – but together they would be impossible to explain away.

There was no doubt about it
, he thought.
I’ll be going down. And when – if – I get out, there’ll be nothing for me. No work, money or home.

With nothing to lose, Randle was determined to take the one thing he’d wanted but managed to hold back from for so many years – the warm, smooth, firm body of a young girl.
The policeman’s girl
.

But he knew the odds were heavily against him. He’d have to act fast, before the policeman was found. Randle also knew that he would be easy to identify – so that was something he needed to fix. The police would be everywhere and he needed to move about unchallenged.

His boast to the policeman about him not being found was, he knew, an idle one – and unless the policeman was stupid, he’d have realised it too. Randle would be missed as soon as school started this morning, and the policeman as soon as he skipped his first shift. The policeman would almost certainly be found today – and the rest of them wouldn’t waste any time looking for him. To get what he wanted, he’d have to act quickly.

Having slept late, Randle started the day by washing – from the sink, slowly, using cold water – aware that even the noise of too much water leaving the tank might alert Arthur’s neighbours that the flat was no longer empty.

Then he carefully shaved off his beard. It took a while, but it was worth it. Without it, he looked almost ten years younger.

Is it enough?
he wondered. He decided that it wasn’t and set about shaving his head, too. Although he’d kept his hair fairly close, this was a whole new look – and one he didn’t entirely care for – but it did make an astounding difference. Staring back from the mirror was an entirely alien face: a younger, harder man – the real Randle, the predator stripped bare. He smiled, satisfied.

He removed his glasses. That helped, but unfortunately he couldn’t see too well without them. He carefully inserted the contact lenses. He’d decided to try them a couple of months ago, when they were available at half price. At the time he’d hated them – finding them too uncomfortable – but he was now pleased that he’d kept them.

Against his eyes they felt huge and rough, but once his eyes had stopped watering, he could see well enough with them.
I’m not sure I could wear them for long
, he thought, but resolved to wear them as long as he could today, to try to get used to them.

He dried his streaming eyes and limped his way into Arthur’s kitchen.
Kicking that nosy copper had been very satisfying,
he thought,
but it really had hurt.
His limp was the one thing that Randle couldn’t hide for long.

Randle made coffee – thankfully Arthur had some powdered milk, so he didn’t have to take it black, although it was still pretty awful. He rifled quietly through the cupboards and retrieved a can of beans. He wondered if he’d have to eat them cold, to avoid the smell of cooking, but decided that he’d probably get away with it. It wasn’t a great breakfast, but Randle had had worse.

Once he’d eaten, Randle looked through the drawers and wardrobes in Arthur’s bedroom, looking for replacements for his own clothes. There was a decent dress suit that was quite unlike anything Randle owned, but he ruled it out as being far too conspicuous. In the end he settled for trousers, shirt and jumper – it probably wasn’t anywhere near good enough to constitute a disguise, but it would have to do.

He hunted through the flat to find anything that might be of use. He couldn’t find a replacement for his own rope. Nor was there any duct tape, but there was a part-roll of brown parcel tape – and a large flask that would definitely come in handy when the time came to stake out the girl.

The thought turned him on enormously. OK,
he thought
, she’ll fight and scream, but she’ll get screwed all the same.

Best of all, he was delighted to find that Arthur owned a computer and that he had a broadband Internet connection. After silencing its speakers, he turned the computer on and fired up the Web browser.
Time
, he thought,
to catch up with the news
.

7

Becca awoke with a scream, falling sideways into the water. She thrashed around and spluttered, panicking. Then she realised that even though she was sitting on the bottom of the well, her head was easily above the water. She calmed herself and looked around, astonished to find that the water level had dropped.

It was again low enough to sit in.

Aching and stiff, she chose to stand, stretching herself as much as she could.

The rain had gone and the day above seemed bright and warm – not that this much affected the temperature deep inside the well.

After her dream, Becca had almost woken, moaning and twisting in her sleep. But her exhausted body wouldn’t let her wake and she’d slept almost until midday.

As she’d fallen, she’d dragged Matt’s body sideways into the water. She heaved him back into a sitting position for no good reason other than it had just seemed wrong to leave him there.

She paused, noting something she’d overlooked when she woke. The smell inside the well was worse. There was a new smell, faint, but definitely there. Unpleasant. She’d almost got used to the background smell of the water and moss. This was different, like rotting –

As the thought hit her, she began to retch.
Matt?
she thought, hoping it was her imagination.
Dear God.
With some difficulty, she stopped herself vomiting and tried to breathe deeply. Faster than she would have thought possible, she began to regain control.
Holy crap
, she thought.
I’m getting used to this shit
.

Although her stomach kept cramping, Becca felt much better than she had the previous day and hoped that the fever had almost passed. She forced herself to cough phlegm into the water, trying to clear her chest, grateful that her throat was easing.

She tried to flip the lighter on, but it was too wet to work. She fumbled for a place to put it and left it with some of the other things, resting on an inset in the wall.

Realising that she needed to pee, she pulled down the football shorts and squatted in the water. She reflected on how quickly such abnormal behaviour had become normal. As she urinated, her stomach cramped badly and she involuntarily emptied her bowels – loose, watery waste that stank.
Oh great,
she thought,
that really is all I need.
But the moment quickly passed, leaving her feeling aching and empty. With Matt’s decomposing body, the stench in the well was rancid enough already and this cranked things up to another level.